Sherlock Oneshots
by Sherlock Emrys
Summary: A collection of little oneshots that don't belong in their own stories. No slash in any of them and no higher ratings than K . Featuring any and all characters that I feel like. Updated sporadically. New Chapter:Sherlock & Scrabble. This can't end well.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Drabbles

Do not own. BBC and ACD own.

1

John opened the fridge to get milk. He slammed the door shut again instantly and leant on it, trying to take in what he'd just seen. He opened the door again, cautiously, to confirm his first glance. Slowly, he retrieved the milk and shut the door.

'Sherlock!'

'What now?' came the reply from the other room. The gunshots ceased momentarily.

'Number one, put that thing away before Mrs Hudson throws you out. And number two, what's in the fridge?'

'Oh, I don't know, milk, cheese, things like that, isn't that what you get in fridges?'

'But I can't see any of your experiments. The fridge would appear to be utterly normal.'

'Then maybe it is utterly normal.'

'You mean you actually don't have anything in the fridge that shouldn't be there?' John was in shock. He'd become so used to the fact that trips to the fridge for milk were a daily hazard in 221b that the lack of body parts and disgusting gloop was offputting.

'You were complaining about it.'

'Well, that was… nice of you to move it.'

John was even more shocked. Sherlock had actually done something that John had asked him to do? This was verging on considerate as far as the detective was concerned. John found himself wondering whether Sherlock was exhibiting the first signs of schizophrenia. He took his tea out into the sitting room, walking towards his bedroom door.

'I put it somewhere else,' called Sherlock up the stairs.

This should have been a warning sign for John. He pushed open his bedroom door and yelped, dropping his cup on the floor. A wave of scalding tea flooded across his feet as he gagged, covering his mouth. He slammed the door shut to block out the reek and the sight of Sherlock's 'Experiment'.

'SHERLOCK!'

2


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Drabbles

Do not own. BBC and ACD own.

2

'Feeling better yet?'

'No. Not really.'

'…'

'…'

'You're ignoring me, aren't you?'

'…'

'Oh, come on John, it was only a bookshelf that fell on you.'

'…'

'I promise I won't experiment with those two chemicals again. I didn't realize the reaction would be so explosive.'

'… Do you actually care?'

'Well, it was a very interesting experim… Hmm. From your face, I deduce that that was not a very good comment.'

'I hate you, Sherlock.'

'Oh, come on, it wasn't my fault.'

'…'

'Okay, maybe it was.'

'Did you actually come in here for a reason?'

'I need a cup of tea.'

'Are you serious?'

'… No. Probably.'

'Good.'

'…'

'Didn't you bring, like, flowers? Or chocolate? Or some kind of apology for putting me in hospital?'

'Do people actually do that?'

**AN: No idea where that came from. I'm in a little, self-pitying mood right now. I'm also slightly fuzzy due to painkillers and sugar (Not a good combination, I've now discovered).**

**So, here you go. Sherlock had blown something up, again, and John got hurt, again. Character abuse ftw.**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Don't own. Again, not sure where this came from. Incidentally, I love Poirot but I've always thought Sherlock would hate it :D**

3

'Come on, think, think, think…'

'Sherlock-'

'Shut up John, not now, thinking. Why would he-'

'Sherlock-'

'I said not NOW, John. But is he after the jewels, no, can't be, no signs of debt. But the state of his shoelace…'

'Sher-'

'John! How many times-'

'For pity's sake, Sherlock, be quiet. I'm trying to watch this.'

Sherlock glared at John, who glared back with equanimity. With a huff, Sherlock threw himself down into an armchair and glared silently at the TV screen instead. He never understood why John watched these programs. A few minutes later, however, he burst out again,

'This is nonsense! It's blatantly obvious who the culprit is, and that silly little "genius",' Sherlock made air quotes around the word, 'is just grandstanding now. And… oh come on, there's no way that's a hair from a cat! Look at it!'

'Sherlock, if you can't be quiet while I watch _Poirot_ I will cut off your tea supply.'


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Hello! I'm back! It's been ages since I updated this fic, but I've been busy with my other Sherlock fic 'Texts From Archenemies' which is also funny.**

**Those of you who read TFA will already know my friend PenguinsPlayingTheViolin. However, for those of you unaware, please meet Penguins. I'm sure she's pleased to meet you. She inspired this drabble by doing this to her friend's umbrella and mentioning it to me. She therefore owns the phrase 'the umbrella was never the same again'.**

Drabble 4

Sherlock has always hated Mycroft with a passion usually reserved for Moriarty, paperwork and shopping. Mycroft has always loathed Sherlock with the kind of detached disdain he usually reserves for visiting diplomats, commoners and dirt on his shoes. He looks out for him as a kind of duty to his mother, who he feels has been adversely affected by bringing up Sherlock.

This can, like all psychological issues, be traced back to early childhood. Needless to say, Sherlock was more or less insufferable from a young age, although in a surprisingly sweet way. Up until he opened his mouth.

It may surprise you to know, however, that Mycroft more-or-less stayed the same for most of his life. At the age of around five, he adopted the habit of carrying an umbrella everywhere. When he left for public school at the age of seven, he was already wearing suits. When he came home for Christmas at the age of 12 one year, he was essentially a fully formed Government Executive, modelled on one-tenth scale; he was surprisingly short for his age.

Sherlock, by this time, was aged ten. The age gap between the brothers always seemed greater than it was, due to Mycroft's adult superiority and Sherlock's mood swings that made him swing between incredibly over-mature to incredibly childish in the blink of an eye.

That Christmas was the final straw. That was the year that the two brothers, previously in an uneasy truce, split apart utterly and declared war on each other, to the horror of their poor mother.

And it was all over an umbrella.

Mycroft's umbrella, to be precise. It wasn't the same one he'd had since the age of five, that one had unfortunately been lost on a train to France a few years previously. Mycroft had accepted this loss with a chillingly adult bearing and an attitude of _c'est la vie_, since there was nothing anyone could do about it.

No, this umbrella was new. It had been given to him a year previously by his grandmother, and Mycroft loved it. It had a gold-plated spike, thick leather fabric that kept the rain off in even a gale, and shiny metal struts. It was a compact, too, one that could be folded up and placed in a briefcase or even a pocket. The base of its handle was labelled _MH_ in gold lettering on mahogany. It was expensive.

Sherlock loved the umbrella too. Nobody else had compacts, they were all old-style umbrellas, and Sherlock was fascinated with the way the handle telescoped. With the flick of a wrist, the handle extended through 'magic'.

Mycroft, sensibly, had learnt a lesson about his brother and personal belongings. He kept the umbrella with him at all times whilst in the same town as his brother. And he kept a close watch on it.

Sherlock was more intelligent than Mycroft even then, at least when it came to quasi-criminal activity. He had already learnt how to get to every room in the house through the windows, how to get past all the security cameras in the corridors, and during his brothers absence had taken stock of Mycroft's security measures around his room.

So, Sherlock took Mycroft's umbrella.

Mycroft noticed almost instantly, when he came back into his room from his trip to the house's library. Mycroft knew precisely what had happened. Mycroft was _angry_.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had fled to his own room and was playing with the umbrella.

Mycroft thundered through the house like a very concentrated and localized herd of elephants. Sherlock had thought of this analogy and Mycroft added it to the list of _reasons why he hated Sherlock and intended to have him deported when he became Prime Minister_. He burst into the room and watched in horror as his brother, a childish grin on his face, flicked the umbrella and sent the upper part flying all the way across the room. It smashed right though the window, upsetting some foul smelling experiment on the way. Mycroft paid this no heed, however, as he focussed on the stump of umbrella left in the hand of his little brother, who gave an endearing grin. Anybody else would have been reduced to a small pile of goo by The Smile. Mycroft knew better. Sherlock dropped the grin and fled.

It took them two days to discover him hiding in a secret compartment in the woodshed. Mycroft was happy about this, as he spent the time attempting to repair the umbrella. However, needless to say, Mycroft's umbrella was never quite the same again.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Wow , it's been ages since I updated this.**

**So the title has changed from 'drabble' to 'oneshot' because really, thats what it is, and especially this one. No points for guessing which ACD story I based it on, some points for findng the _other_ Steven Moffat quotes. I reckon there mucst be hundreds of these but I had a plot bunny and ran with it. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and I'm in a hurry so I've only proofread it once- please forgive any screw ups, especially if ff. net eats my spaces again, it does that sometimes. They're meant to be there. It keeps eating my punctuation, too.**

5

John darted through London's streets, hurrying home from work on a chill spring evening. He made his way towards a market, in the intention of picking up some food before returning to the dank flat he was renting. It didn't really seem like home, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't help himself thinking longingly of _his room_ at 221b- and yet, he couldn't bring himself to go back there.

He was so wrapped up in his melancholy thoughts that he, in earnest obliviousness, tripped over the leg of a market stall and flew straight into a stranger. John picked himself up off the ground and apologized profusely to the old man he'd sent sprawling- an elderly gentleman, with flyaway white hair and a hunched back. Guiltily, John wondered how much harm he'd done the pensioner. Probably osteoporosis or arthritis, and now a concussion too. But the man refused all John's attempts at help and picked himself up, scrabbling for his armful of books, which had scattered across the pavements.

'Look, I'm really sorry, I didn't see you-' John began. The man stood up and snapped,

'Well, you should have been looking! Cheeky young whippersnapper, I don't know…' He picked up the last book, shot John a final glare and hurried away through the crowds before John could even try and apologize.

Shaking his head, John continued through the market, careful not to let his thoughts dwell again on the past.

Having bought his groceries from the market, John returned to the high-rise block of flats where he resided and waited, impatiently, for the elevator, which appeared to be broken again. With a sigh, he took the stairs, trying not to look at the discarded waste in the corners of the stairwell. He finally reached his flat, out of breath and tired, and carefully unlocked his door. He pushed it open and was about to enter when a voice hailed him from just down the corridor.

'Excuse me, young man,' came a vaguely familiar tone. John turned, the door half open, to see the old man he'd knocked flying.

'Oh, it's you,' John began in surprise. 'Listen, I really am sorry about-'

'You've nothing to be sorry about, boy,' said the man with a genial smile that revealed yellowed teeth. 'I came up to apologise to you, you know, for being so cranky earlier.'

'It's… fine,' John said in bewilderment. 'Er… would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee? Or?..'

'Aye, a cup of tea wouldn't go amiss,' said the gentleman. John held the door open politely and showed him into the bare sitting room.

'It's just that I was worried about my books, you see,' the man continued amiably. 'Rare, they are, and books are dying out these days too. I'm a collector of sorts, you know. Reckon you could use some books in here,' he continued. John stood smilingly, attempting to look interested. Poor guy, it was probably the first time he'd talked to anyone in some time. Going senile, too, by the look of it.

'You could fill that gap over there perfectly with five volumes,' the collecter said, pointing at the bookshelf. Automatically, John's eyes flicked over to the case, and when they flicked back-

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the middle of his flat.

For the second time in his entire life, John Watson fainted.

Later, John tried to gloss over that part, as he felt that fainting was a little undignified for an ex-soldier. But the last time he had seen Sherlock, the man had _jumped off a roof._ John had seen the cranial trauma, the blood on the pavement…

When he came to, he was lying awkwardly on the floor. He wasn't bruised and nothing really hurt, so Sherlock had caught him and lowered him, but clearly the man hadn't changed much being dead because he hadn't even got John a cushion let alone put him in an armchair.

John cracked open an eye. Sherlock was standing in the dark room, hands behind his back, staring into space. Probably thinking about something. John registered the light levels and realized that the blinds of his flat were closed and the bookcase shoved in front of the one small window.

'Sherlock, what-' John began, before it all came crashing down on him. He scrambled upright, staggering towards the figure of the consulting detective. 'Sherlock, you… are you _alive_?'

'I'm standing in the middle of your flat John, corpses rarely do that, do keep up.' Sherlock didn't look away from the window.

John reached him and reached out a hand, prodding his arm. 'So you're really here, you survived,' he breathed.

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards him. 'I think we already covered that.'

John pulled back his fist and let fly, punching Sherlock as hard as he could in the face.

The consulting detective gasped and reeled, putting a hand to his cheek. 'John, that was not necessary.'

'Not _necessary_?' John yelled. 'You bloody prat, I thought you were _dead_! Three years, Sherlock, _three years_! And now, you come barging into my flat-'

'You invited me.'

'-and you, you, you just turn around and bam, you're alive! I mean, _three years_!' John was almost speechless with rage. 'And now you just stand there doing your _I'm so clever_ melodramatic _thing_ and you act like you just popped out to get milk, I mean, you could at least say _sorry_!'

'John-' Sherlock sat down in an armchair and tried to speak, but John overrode him.

'And you, you just sit there like it's been three days or three hours, and all this time you weren't even dead! I saw it, Sherlock, I _saw_ you split your skull on that concrete and you let me live with that!'

'John!' The irate doctor subsided for a moment. Sherlock spoke again, more calmly. 'John, please believe me when I saw that it was unavoidable. If I had told you, inevitably there would have been repercussions that I wished to avoid-'

'Three years,' John snapped as he flopped down in the other armchair.

'It took longer that I thought,' Sherlock began. 'I had underestimated Moriarty's network.'

'Three years and four psychiatrists.'

'Four, what happened to the original one?... Ah.' Sherlock's eyes flicked around the flat. 'I see.'

'I kept firing them,' John muttered. 'They tried to make me believe you were fake.'

'Well, I had to stay abroad, John,' Sherlock said, stretching his long legs. 'It was only recently that it was safe enough to return toLondon.' He sunk his head onto his folded hands in his old, familiar posture.

'You could have sent a message! No postcard, no letter, not one single solitary text! Do you have _any_ idea-'

'Better live for three years thinking me dead that have me contact you and get the both of us killed, do you have a microscope?'

'What?' John's train of thought was derailed. 'All your stuff's back at the flat, Mrs Hudson decided to keep it, Mycroft's paying the rent for the room…'

'No, no, here.'

'Why would I have a microscope at my flat?'

'Doesn't everyone?'

'No, Sherlock, they don't,' John said, trying to keep his temper. '_Normal_ people don't keep microscopes in their flats, just like _normal_ people don't jump off roofs and tell their best friend that they're dead for _THREE YEARS_!'

John was really yelling now, and Sherlock just sat in his- John's- chair and looked at him in that cool, calm, _I-Know-Everything-About-You-Because-I'm-A-Smartass_ way that made John want to punch him again, because dammit, Sherlock had been his friend and it had not been an easy three years.

John cracked up laughing.

After a moment, Sherlock grinned and began to laugh too, and before long John felt better than he had for years. For three years, to be exact. Who would have thought you could _miss_ having cadavers in the fridge or violin playing at three in the morning?

'So,' John began once they'd calmed down. 'What are you doing here?'

'I need you to help me, John. For old time's sake?'

John grinned so widely he thought his face might crack. 'OK. Fine. Let's go.'

'I need a microscope. And I need you to barricade all your windows because there's a sniper watching you. And then we've got a tiger to catch.' Sherlock's face was alight with the thrill of the chase and for now John wasn't even going to ask the obvious questions.

An hour later he was crouched in a deserted house with mould and rats watching 221b from over the road, in the dark, freezing cold, with Sherlock bloody Holmes next to him, after having dragged him across half of London away from his warm, cosy flat and his nice, safe job and out onto the cold, dangerous streets to catch a killer before he caught them.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.


	6. Chapter 6

**I know I said these were oneshots. But I wanted to follow this up, so here's the 'sequel' to the last one.**

**The below theory is the one I came up with. I shouldn't think that it's _the_ solution, but it's _a_ solution. So whilst this will become AU at some point, as of now (23rd Jan 2012) it's my explaination.**

6

Or 5.2

The front room of number 220 was freezing. The owners had moved out after the 'gas leak' three years ago and, with the house unable to find a buyer, the top floor had not been rebuilt, only summarily covered with a tarpaulin. The cold January wind wound through the house, stealing into every room, thin tendrils playing with the doors that hung on their hinges, producing a symphony of creaks and groans that sounded like Sherlock playing his worst violin scare-tactics.

John huddled into his coat in the gloom, letting his mind wander. He was happier than he'd been for years now that Sherlock was back, the mystery explained, and he knew that Moriarty was really gone this time. Definitely. Well. Almost. They'd found a body, but then they'd found a body for Sherlock and the man was standing next to him, so John wasn't taking that for granted anymore.

John frowned and tried to remember the solution Sherlock had so cleverly explained. It was so simple, but it had fooled every man in the country. Nearly.

'I'd guessed what Moriarty would do,' Sherlock had explained. 'Well, it was obvious. We'd been playing that game for so long and we both were just waiting for our move.' The detective's pale hands fiddled with the chess set John had left, abandoned, on the table. 'We both had the same aim in mind.' He moved the white queen up the board. 'Check.'

'So you were planning for this?' John moved across the room, flicked on the telly. Muted, it flickered an image of a newsreader. Subtitles ran across the bottom- _A fifth person has been murdered on the streets of __London__. Police are baffled. The only know link between the victims seems to be mere appearance- dark hair, tall and wearing blue coats._ John frowned at it. That probably meant something…

'Since the beginning. He thought ten steps ahead, set up his game, his decoy.' Sherlock moved a black pawn up the board thoughtfully, countering with white without stopping his flow. 'He set up his courtcase, thinking to distract me from what he was really trying to do.' _Click._ He set down the black queen a square away from check. 'He wanted me to move into his trap. What he didn't see was that I was doing exactly the same thing.' _Click, click, click_. The pieces tapped the wooden board as Sherlock moved the white pieces into place around the black king, even as he shifted the blacks around the white. 'He destroyed my name. My identity. Every single person who ever knew me turned against me.' _Click. Click. Click._ 'And I let him. Because sooner or later, I'd have done it myself.' _Click. Click. Click. _'Don't look so surprised, John, you said yourself that fame was not a good thing for me. I can't work in the spotlight all the time. No, I needed to die. For once,' a wry smile twisted his lips, 'we were in accord on something. Only he had different ideas about permanence.' He was flicking pieces around the board, clustering them around the kings, waiting for the right moment. He made no move to clear them of the danger. 'And so did he, of course. It's no good being a criminal if everybody knows your face. So he set up his endgame, his final gambit.' The last black piece clicked into place around the white king, leaving it cut off and defenceless, all the other pieces across the board around the black. 'And at the same time… I formed mine.' _Click_. The black king was surrounded.

John was frowning at the TV again. He felt like he was missing the last piece of a puzzle.

'Check,' Sherlock said softly, leaning back as he surveyed the board. 'And… mate.'

'But- but it didn't work, did it?' John had asked, still trying to work it out.

Sherlock scoffed. 'Of course not. I told you I'd planned for it.' He leaned forwards again, tapping the white king. 'He set his game in motion.' Sherlock picked up the black queen and, with a sudden movement, knocked the white king off the board. It rolled across the table and fell to the ground with a thud that made John wince in recollection. 'So I died to the eyes of the world. And Moriarty-' he tapped the black king- 'did the same.' He picked up the white queen and knocked over the black king, where it lay prone on the board surrounded by white.

'Yeah, OK, Sherlock, but leaving out the fancy imagery and the chess metaphors, can we just get back to _how the hell you did it_?' Something clicked in John's head and he sat up, glared sharply at the screen and went to speak but refrained from doing so.

Sherlock looked slightly put-out. 'John, was it really not obvious? You knew my methods. Why did you not apply them? And would you turn that thing _off_?'

'_Because my best friend was lying dead on the ground with his head cracked open and his brains all over the pavement!'_ John yelled. He turned off the TV with more than necessary vigour, mashing the button into the remote.

Sherlock sighed. 'Fine. If I must spell it out for you.' He leaned back, his face becoming a little more animated. 'I had my network helping me out. The Baker Street Irregulars, so much more efficient than the police, didn't I say to you? They were all around, watching, waiting for me. Who notices the homeless? They're even more invisible than cabbies. They always carry bundles, too, and who _looks_ at those? They had a strong blanket that they spread to catch me. You were standing just the other side of the square but you couldn't see- I made sure there was a barrier. It was a risk, but firefighters do it all the time to catch people jumping off the top of buildings and statistically I would survive.

'So they caught me. And you, with all your medical knowledge, didn't notice I was still alive! It's amazing how easy it is to fool somebody with stage blood and prosthetics. People see what they want to see, haven't you learnt that yet, John? I was carted away to hospital, and if they were bemused to see my vital signs going strong they were taken in enough by the blood to rush me in anyway.

'I had already told Mycroft my plans and he had his little minions stationed at the hospital in the guise of doctors. They took charge of my 'body' and wheeled me out, and Mycroft fiddled the records so if anybody asked, Sherlock Holmes died that night and was buried a few days later. If they were really curious then they would probe a little further, and they would find two doctors and some mortuary staff all prepared to testify on oath that Sherlock Holmes was dead and they had seen his body. It's amazing what you can do when your brother's the British Government.

'I'm actually a little insulted that nobody cared enough to follow it up, but there. I suppose that was better in the end.'

John sat with his mouth open, gawping at Sherlock. 'You had all that planned since the pool?'

'Be fair, John, so did he.'

John shook his head slowly. 'That… was amazing. Again. You know what? If anybody ever tells me you're dead, I'll perform the autopsy myself, just to be sure.'

'Won't work. Anyone could create a doppelganger of me. Prosthetics, plastic surgery and a convenient stand in.' John could see his brain working again, enjoying the fresh challenge of fooling an autopsy. 'Perhaps a 'death' involving severe facial trauma? So the features can't be distinguished…'

'Sherlock. Bloody well stop it, mate. I was kidding, OK? Don't _ever_ do that again. Ever.'

Sherlock cracked a rare grin. 'I wasn't planning to. I had to endure Mycroft's company for a whole week, until I could go abroad. And the disguises weren't exactly what I'd call comfortable.'

John grinned despite himself. 'Well, you're back now. I'll go make a cup of tea and then you can tell me what you need my help for, OK?'

'What is it with you and _tea_?' Sherlock asked exasperatedly. 'You're always drinking it, aren't you? It must be a British thing, tea as the answer to everything. _There's a serial killer on the loose_, _let's have tea! Somebody's just been murdered, let's have tea! I've just run all the way across __London__, I'll be fine when I've had a cup of tea!'_

John poked his head around the door. 'Sherlock, you drink as much tea as I do. And that last one was entirely your fault.'

'No it wasn't. It was the murderers fault.'

'Yes, but you're the bloody idiot who felt the need to chase him all the way across the city! Because using the tube would have been too simple and _dull_.'

The two continued to bicker as the kettle boiled. It went unnoticed in the row.

* * *

><p>John was brought back to himself as a door slammed somewhere in the empty house. It made him jump, and he ashamedly tried to hide it even though it was dark and the only person here was Sherlock. It had been a long wait, and he hadn't spoken since trying to ask Sherlock about the plain black car parked on the other side of the street and been summarily dismissed. John had kept his peace, trusting to Sherlock's judgement.<p>

'Sherlock, what-' he began, and was cut off by the detective's hand over his face. He shut up, and in the deserted building he could hear footsteps echoing through the corridors, providing a rhythmic counterpoint to the song of the creaking hinges. John reached for his pistol, which he still had in his pocket. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it- just another little piece of hope that he couldn't let go of, that someday he'd be needing it again.

'Quiet,' Sherlock breathed in his ear. 'The tiger is walking into the trap.'

John wanted to denounce this overuse of metaphors but he didn't have time because at that moment, the door to the front room swung open. Sherlock and John were crouched behind a sofa, covered in a white dustsheet that glowed in the gloom like a ghost. The door was to their right, and the sofa was between them and the man who entered. John froze, not daring to move a muscle.

The man crossed the bare floor, which groaned and complained with every step he took. In the faint, diffuse light that came in through the grimy window, John saw him stoop and set something on the ground with a metallic _clink_. He glanced up at the window of 221b opposite, which was lit with yellow light, and John saw his face lit by the streetlamps.

He was middle aged, tanned, grey haired, with a moustache and a look of the English nobility about him- but a slight, unhinged quality to his face, and the cold determination in his eyes as he assembled the object on the floor, told John that the man was a killer.

The man picked up the object from the floor and John realized with a shudder that it was a gun, although not one he'd ever seen before- a rifle, with a long barrel and sights, but a strangely shaped chamber and some form of silencer on the end.

Sherlock tensed beside him. John tightened his grip on the butt of his pistol. The man raised the gun, cradling it to his shoulder, and sighted on the distant pane of light in which a dark silhouette was projected (Sherlock had explained the mechanism to John- something to do with a projector displaying a computer generated figure onto the curtains- but he hadn't really taken it in).

There was a soft tinkle of broken glass as a neat, round hole appeared in the window. Cracks spider-webbed out and away from it like frost melting under a warm breath. There had been no report, no sound of a shot, but the window up in 221b had gone dark suddenly and the streetlights picked out a similar hole.

John was marvelling at the power, accuracy and silence of weapon and shooter when Sherlock stood up with a swift movement. The floor creaked slightly below him and the sniper turned, squinting into the dark interior after having gazed at the bright window. John quickly followed Sherlock as the detective leapt for the sniper, who turned to run but was still blinded by the light. Within seconds, John's gun was pressed to his temple and the man ceased to struggle against Sherlock's restraining hand.

The noise of the struggle had been heard in the street outside, clearly, for as the three men stood in the bare room the noise of splintering wood was heard. John turned in alarm but Sherlock reassured him.

'Don't worry, it's just Lestrade and some of his friends. I signalled them to wait outside.'

'So that was who was waiting in the unmarked car,' John said with realization.

'Yes, well done, very good John, congratulations. You're not quite as stupid as I gave you credit for,' Sherlock said, with sarcasm inherent in every syllable.

'Yeah, OK, thanks Sherlock. I was trying to be helpful, since you had a go at me for not figuring you out last time.'

'You had an excuse last time, that was intended to fool every man in England. This time you're just being an idiot.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Oh, how I've missed you.'

'Yes, well. This man here nearly didn't,' Sherlock said, shaking the man who he held in an arm lock. 'When Lestrade and his minions arrive, I'll do introductions.'

More footsteps pounded through the house, voices barking orders. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Lestrade!' he bellowed. 'We're in here. We've got him!'

The voices halted, then converged on the door. It was kicked open and several flashlights shone inside, blinding John and Sherlock for a moment.

'Oh, turn those off,' Sherlock snapped. 'Idiots. Just get over here and arrest him.'

A couple of policemen hesitantly made their way over and grabbed the sniper, cuffing his hands behind his back. Sherlock stood back and stretched.

'Well, that's that over with. How about a spot of tea?' he said brightly, trying to sneak past the ring of men. John hastily hid his gun and followed.

'Oh no you don't. You're coming in for questioning,' said a familiar voice in the dark ahead. A flashlight switched on, glaring at the two men.

'Stop it, Lestrade,' Sherlock snapped.

The flashlight dropped to the floor and rolled away, leaving John blinking away tears.

'_Sherlock_? Is that you?' Lestrade sounded incredulous. 'Wait, no. No, no, no. No way.'

'Shut up and move. I for one would rather have this conversation elsewhere,' Sherlock said, pushing past him and down the passageway.

Lestrade followed him out into the street. John struggled to keep up in the narrow hall.

'So is that you, Dr Watson?' the policeman asked.

'Yep. Nice to see you, Greg,' John replied.

'So Sherlock-'

'Oh, you don't know the half of it. Turned up in my flat disguised as an old man, spent half an hour showing off how he survived and demonstrating with chess, then led me halfway across London to get here.'

'Same old Sherlock, then.'

'Hasn't changed a bit,' John agreed wearily. 'Still hasn't explained what's going on.'

'Why does that not surprise me?' Lestrade muttered as they emerged, blinking, onto the street.

Sherlock spun to face them, hands in his pockets. 'Well? You've got him, haven't you?'

'He's under arrest, if that's what you mean. We'll charge him with something, although I don't know what. Attempted murder of a man who's officially dead? Tricky, really.' Lestrade sighed. 'Why is it, Sherlock, that the moment you appear on the scene my cases always become more complicated?'

'Because you're an idiot. I simplify your cases. You overcomplicate them.' Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Fine. We'll charge him with trespass and leave it at that.'

'Trespass? Don't be stupid, that won't even get him jail time. You've caught the man the whole force was looking for, Lestrade,' Sherlock said with an uncharacteristic grin. 'The murderer who shot and killed five people on the streets of London over the last week. Well done you.'

'That's what I was trying to talk about earlier!' John protested. Sherlock gave him a patronizing look. He shot another one at Lestrade, who was looking baffled.

'How did you-'

'Long story, boring, you'll work it out.' Sherlock spun on his heel and strode towards the house entrance, where the sniper was being lead out towards a police car which had drawn up on the curb.

'Colonel Sebastian Moran,' Sherlock said cordially. 'What a pleasure to meet you in the flesh.'

Moran glared.

'What, no speech?' John said curiously as he watched over Sherlock's shoulder.

Moran glared.

'Not even a defiant growl?' Sherlock said with an air of disappointment.

Moran glared.

'Ah well, such is life,' Lestrade said sardonically. 'Looks like we've finally got one who knows what 'right to remain silent' means.'

'Which is?'

'"If you're not going to confess, shut it,"' Lestrade translated.

The three watched as Moran was dragged away.

'So it was you who made that anonymous tipoff, was it?' Lestrade asked Sherlock.

'Well, clearly.' Sherlock rearranged his scarf and collar. He turned to leave.

'Oh, no you don't, Sherlock Holmes,' Lestrade said, with a hand on his shoulder. 'You're going to explain to me exactly how I am supposed to charge this man, and then you are going to explain how you survived, and then you are going to buy John and me a drink because goodness knows we need it.'

Sherlock halted, turned, and smiled insincerely. 'Sorry, but no. I've already explained myself once tonight. John can tell you later.' He turned back again and crossed the road.'

'I'd better follow him,' John said awkwardly. 'Leave him alone five minutes, he'll probably get himself kidnapped again.'

'You're probably right at that,' Lestrade agreed.

'John! Hurry up!' Sherlock yelled.

'I'll talk to you later,' John said quickly.

'Yeah, see you later.' They shared a look that communicated mutual exasperation with the irritation that was Sherlock Holmes, and then John jogged across the road as he yelled a reply to Sherlock's call.

Donovan strolled up to Lestrade as he watched Sherlock unlock the door of the flat.

'He's in the back of the patrol car,' she informed him. 'Devil of a time getting him to stay there-' She followed Lestrade's gaze. 'Oh my goodness, is that- is that the freak?'

'That,' Lestrade said heavily, 'is Sherlock Holmes. The man _you_ made me arrest. And he's not dead after all.' He took in Donovan's shocked expression. 'Oh, give over, the man's given us three years peace.'

'He was dead!' she protested.

'Yes, and now he isn't. Don't ask me, I don't know, he won't talk to me right now. Told me to ask John later.'

'So you just let him leave?'

'Have you ever tried getting him to do anything he doesn't want to do? I'm telling you, without an arrest warrant or a weapon it isn't possible.' Lestrade sighed. 'You know, I should be really angry, but you know what? I'm just pleased he's OK.'

'That won't last long.'

'No, I'll probably want to push him off a roof myself by tomorrow.'

His phone buzzed.

_I'm charging the Yard for my broken window. Expenses incurred whilst aiding the law. –SH_

'Scratch that. I want to push him off a roof _now_. I'm beginning to think we should have given Moriarty an OBE for that.'

_Ignore that. Mycroft can pay for it. –JW_

'Guess that peace and quiet didn't last,' Donovan remarked.

'Here we go again,' Lestrade muttered. He turned off his phone, ignoring the texts that had arrived in between their conversation.

* * *

><p>'So, that's it? All of Moriarty's gang is gone?'<p>

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, raising a cloud of dust. 'Yes. Moran was the last and the most dangerous. Still a few loose ends to tidy up but Lestrade can deal with those.'

John picked up the projector gingerly. The lens was shattered. He peered at it and saw the bulge in the back of the casing where the bullet had come to rest.

'That was some gun,' he remarked. 'And a pretty good shot.'

'Of course it was, it was Moran. He's an ex-game hunter, got a record as long as your arm for poaching endangered animals. Moriarty snapped him up, got the charges dropped- the man had half ofSouth Africain his pocket- and turned him to hunting endangered humans instead.' Sherlock stretched out and steepled his fingers. 'There's a file on him on my computer. Under the 'biographies, criminal' folder.

John picked up the laptop and flicked it on, feeling the ancient hardware hum to life. Sherlock had left it logged on, all those years ago.

He quickly navigated Sherlock's file structure- ignoring the documents labelled things like 'Effects of Arsenic in Low Doses when Delivered in Food', sensing that he was better off not knowing and resolving _never_ to accept food from Sherlock again- and opened up Moran's biography.

'"Moran, Colonel Sebastian,"' he read. '"Poacher. Sharp shooter. Criminal record. "Born in London, lived abroad. Son of the Hon. Sir Augustus Moran. Educated Etonand Oxford. Formerly of Her Majesty's Armed Forces." -_Twerps Peerage_. The most dangerous man inLondon."'

'He was Moriarty's right hand man and when I took out his leader, he came after me.' Sherlock scowled at the ceiling. 'I had to stay abroad for years until I could figure out how to trap him. That gun of his was a gift from his boss, and it made him almost impossible to catch.'

'What kind of gun was that?' John asked, closing the laptop.

'Specialized. Made by a German mechanic named von Herder, to Moriarty's orders. The man was killed when it was completed, of course, and the gun stolen. Officially it doesn't exist. John, make a cup of tea.'

'I would, but I'm afraid to look in the kitchen. I think your experiments might have got as far as inventing the wheel after three years.'

'Nonsense, Mrs Hudson's been looking after it. Mycroft's orders.'

John opened the kitchen door with trepidation. It seemed that Sherlock was right. It wasn't clean, but compared to its usual state- half science lab, half garbage dump- it was pristine. John rinsed out the kettle and set it to boil, cleaning out the teapot as he listened to Sherlock continue his lecture.

'He was the man behind the serial killings, of course. It had to be him- only that gun could have shot so silently, and only that man could have shot so precisely. He was after me, but he kept getting it wrong.' Sherlock sneered. 'It's not as if I'm the only person in a blue coat in London.'

'You could have stopped him sooner,' John protested. 'Five people, Sherlock.'

'It was them or me. I didn't have time, I was working as fast as I could.'

'How do you do that?' John said angrily. 'How do you go from hero to psycho so quickly?'

'Sociopath, John. And you should be used to it by now.' Sherlock's voice wasn't even slightly concerned.

John poured the water over some slightly musty teabags. 'I don't believe you sometimes.'

'Look at it this way,' Sherlock said. He walked to the kitchen and leaned on the jamb. 'Five people died. Yes, it was my fault. But in stopping Moran I saved maybe five, ten, twenty other people who wear coats like mine and have dark hair. Does that make you feel better?'

'Slightly.' John poured out the tea. 'We don't have any milk, sorry.' He handed a mug to the detective. 'You know what? I can't even debate ethics with you at this point. I'm just glad you're back.'

Sherlock smiled slightly. 'So am I.'

FINIS

**Well, that's over with. I'm not totally happy with this- for instance, I don't think I explained the updated-wax-dummy enough- and I strongly suspect that there are several silly mistakes here because I'm a little out of it. I keep doing things along the lines of 'he put toast in the toaster' and then spotting it and going back, but I don't know if I got them all. I'm also really not happy with the end because it's sappy and doesn't look good, so I might rewrite it at some point.**

**I've also proof-read for grammar, spelling and edible punctuation (I really do not know where it goes) so it should be OK, but sorry if it isn't. And next chapter will be unrelated. My friend PenguinsPlayingTheViolin had a request I should get around to doing XD**

**Have a good week, everyone!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Penguins has decided that she will wite her own request, so here is an unconnected oneshot. Set any time, either series. It has a crackfic premise, but it's not actually crack.**

**EDIT: Changed a very, very dumb mistake that rendered the entire plot nonexistant. Sorry.**

7

The sirens split the afternoon as the police responded to yet another call. The quiet suburb was instantly a-bustle, like an anthill that had been poked , as peering neighbours tried to catch a glimpse of the concatenation of circumstances.

DI Lestrade stepped out of his squad car and took charge.

'Get a screen up around the body and get the paramedics out of here, they've given up and it's over to forensics. Start cataloguing everything, please. Someone check in the house, there should be a partner- I want him detained and questioned. Somebody else, get me a coffee. We're going to need Sherlock on this one and I always start needing caffeine when he's around.'

Subordinates ran to do his bidding as he advanced on the scene of the crime.

Number 14, Haleston Avenue was a pleasant, red-brick detached house, with a front garden big enough for a chicken coop, a lawnmower and a dead body. The woman, the owner of the house, had been stabbed with a sharp knife which wasn't intended for the purpose- a penknife, according to the paramedics and the forensics first look. She had been feeding the chickens at the time, and the bloody little featherballs were still squawking around the place, making a mess and assaulting officers. Millet was strewn over the grass, absorbing her blood. The birds were pecking at it anyway.

Lestrade knelt down beside the dead woman. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a messy ponytail and she wore a scruffy T-Shirt and leggings.

'Well?' he asked gruffly.

Anderson looked up. 'She's in her late thirties, fit and healthy, no signs of a struggle. She was stabbed under the fourth rib on her right side, which punctured the intercostals and opened the lung, filling it with blood from the vein. Died of asphyxia, fatal haemorrhage and shock.'

'What was the angle of the stab wound?'

Anderson thought for a moment, then pulled a pen from his pocket and pointed at his own rib. 'About this.' He was pointing from below and out to the side.

'So, she was stabbed from the front, from below- underarm, or the killer underneath her- and from her right, presumably the killer's left? That means that the murderer was left handed,' Lestrade said thoughtfully. 'Thanks, Anderson.'

He nodded to his colleague, who continued with his work. Lestrade stood up and walked away towards the officer leading out a protesting and hysterical man from the house.

'I tell you, I had no idea!' he yelled. 'What they hell are you talking about, she can't be dead, who would kill her?' He caught sight of the woman lying on the lawn, her white t-shirt stained wine red, and broke down. The policewoman led him away, presumably to be dealt with by the paramedics for shock and then interrogated.

Lestrade frowned at the man. That reaction looked genuine. He'd need more evidence to accuse him, though…

Ah, well. Time to face the music. This was his least favourite part of any case. Sliding his phone out of his pocket, he accessed the speed dial.

'C'mon, pick up,' he chanted. The dial burred a little longer and then went through.

'Hello?'

Lestrade breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was the friendly, human tones of John Watson. 'Good to talk to you, Doctor Watson. Is Sherlock available right now?'

'Yes. Absolutely, yes. Please tell me you have a case.' John's voice sounded desperate.

Lestrade sympathized. 'Going stir-crazy again, is he?'

A gunshot was heard in the background over the phone. John's voice moved away from the mike for a moment, and Lestrade could have sworn he heard the Doctor shout 'That was worth fifteen hundred thousand, Sherlock! Your brother is going to have to renegotiate the treaty with China, just for that!' He fervently prayed he was somehow mishearing. Then John's voice returned. 'Yes. Yes, he is. Please, Lestrade, for the sake of the entire country, give us a case.'

'Well, that was why I'm calling. Tell him, 14 Haleston Avenue, in the suburbs. There's a stabbing.'

'Fatal?'

'Very.'

'I'll ask him.' John's voice moved away from the mobile again and the faint hum of voices was heard in the background. Lestrade waited impatiently until John returned.

'We're on our way.'

'Thanks,' Lestrade said gratefully.

'No, thank you. No. Really. Thank you so, so much. He's getting worse. He's just caused a diplomatic incident with China, blown up the kitchen and tried to sneak a variety of drugs out of my medical kit, which he _claims_ were for experiments.'

Lestrade winced. 'I feel sorry for you.'

'Thanks. I'll see you soon.'

In due time, a taxi cab drew up and the scene and disgorged Sherlock Holmes, all flappy coat and scarf, followed by the ever patient John Watson, in a not-so-dashing knit jumper.

'Well, Lestrade?' Sherlock asked impatiently as he strode towards the body.

'The victim is a woman named Lauren Andrews. Late thirties. She was feeding the chickens.'

'Chickens? Who keeps chickens out here? I though that was a countryside thing.'

'It's getting more fashionable in the city. Free range food, you know,' John replied to the detective. Sherlock gave him a Look. 'You know, eating healthily.'

'Boring, don't care. So, she was feeding the chickens when she was stabbed.'

'Yes. The pen was open, which it only was at feeding time, and she was lying on a pile of spilled feed.'

Sherlock hunkered down beside the body. 'Entry wound?'

'Right side, under the rib.' John was crouched at the other side, examining the wound. 'Stabbed from below?'

'Looks that way,' Lestrade nodded. Sherlock frowned.

'Wrong.'

'Oh, for Pete's sake Sherlock. She _was_, look, the entry wound is from beneath the rib.' Lestrade gestured to the body. 'Which means, given the side, that the killer was left handed, and conveniently so was her partner, who also owns a penknife which holds traces of her blood.'

'Let me see that,' Sherlock demanded, holding out a hand even as he continued to examine Lauren Andrews.

Lestrade sighed and produced the evidence bag. A penknife was visible through the clear plastic. Sherlock extended the blade, frowned, then tossed the bag back to Lestrade.

The DI fumbled but caught it safely, letting loose a few swearwords as he retracted the blade.

'Come on, Sherlock, that could have really hurt somebody!'

He was ignored. John, who had finished his examination, stood up and walked over to Lestrade.

'What does your suspect say?'

'Nothing yet,' the Inspector sighed. 'Still in hysterics. It's either real or a really good act. He went into shock when he saw her body.'

'How did he not notice her being killed?'

'He was doing guitar practice, apparently. That was where we found him, at any rate. In a sound-proofed room, playing Queen through an amp with a drum fill playing on a tape. It drowned out everything quite effectively, although it also told us that he is left-handed.'

'So he has an alibi?'

'Yes- not watertight, but he'd have to be pretty quick to stab her, run upstairs, cleanup that knife to this extent and turn on his guitar.'

Sherlock stood up suddenly, interrupting their conversation.

'Lestrade, let the husband go. He didn't do it.'

'How do you know?' asked Lestrade suspiciously.

Sherlock began talking as he led the way back to the gate. 'That penknife has very, very old blood on it. It's not fresh. She probably cut herself while fixing something. Secondly, the killer was right handed.'

'How do you work that out?' John asked curiously.

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that Lestrade nearly walked into him and drew a pen from the pocket of his melodramatic coat.

'Imagine I'm a left handed person.' He switched the pen to his left hand, holding it with the point upwards. 'Now imagine I'm stabbing someone who's facing me.' He swung the pen upwards, prodding John in the side.

'Ow!' protested the Doctor. Sherlock ignored him.

'Now imagine I'm a right handed person,' he switched hands again, 'stabbing somebody who is facing away.' He walked around John and swung his right hand up, poking John in the side with the tip of the pen again. It touched at exactly the same angle as before. 'An underarm stab. It's the same whichever way. And look, the woman wasn't struggling so she didn't know someone was stabbing her, so they were behind her, so the killer was right handed.'

Sherlock put the pen back into his pocket and continued walking towards the gate. John and Lestrade trotted behind him.

'Show off,' John muttered. 'He's got ink all over my jumper.'

Lestrade suppressed a giggle.

'Anyway,' Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard it. 'That rules out the man on principle. Second, it was someone outside the house- and that rules him out, because he was at home. He didn't open the gate to kill her.'

'How do you know the gate was opened?' Lestrade asked. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but John beat him to it.

'Is this about the dead chicken in the road?'

Lestrade looked at him, nonplussed.

Sherlock looked at him as one would a dog that has, after many years of patient coaching, finally performed a very simple trick.

'Don't give me that, Sherlock,' the man grumbled, flushing. 'You aren't the only person who thinks about things.'

Lestrade filed the expression on Sherlock's face under "Memories to treasure forever" and contemplated snapping it on his camera phone.

'So,' Sherlock picked up smoothly. 'There's a chicken lying dead in the road, ht by a car or whatever. The question is not what killed it, but why it is on the other side of the road.'

Lestrade was unable to suppress his snort of laughter. 'Why did the chicken cross the road?'

Sherlock gave him a rather snobbish look. 'Oh, do grow up, Lestrade. It's a case. I believe you set great store by such things.'

Lestrade sobered up. 'So, the fact that the chicken is on the other side of the road means that the gate was opened whilst the pen was open. The only time it was open was during feeding time and she was killed then, so the killer came from the road and opened the gate, killed her, and legged it closing the gate behind him, not realizing that a chicken had escaped-'

'When they had been scattered by her death,' completed John. 'I see. So the killer…'

'Wasn't the husband,' Sherlock finished.

'And can you find the killer?'

Sherlock grinned. 'I think I can. Come on, John.' And the man was off, running down the road in the opposite direction. John gave a helpless shrug and followed, jogging behind him down the alley.

Lestrade stood there for a moment, then burst out laughing.

'Only Sherlock Holmes,' he muttered to himself. 'Only Sherlock Holmes could make a _Why did the chicken cross the road_ joke and not realize it.'

**OK, so it's still crack. Just... not total crack.**

**I've read it back and it's rubbish, I'm posting this as a crack fic.**

**Although it's not as cracky as the other idea I had, which... well, I won't spoil it in case I do write it.**

**As always, I've checked for FF. Net eating my spaces and would like again to appeal for information on why it does that.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sherlock Songfics. Seemed like a good idea at the time.**

**Why? Why the hell not? Scratch that, plenty of good reasons why not. I'm just ignoring them. Shut up, you.**

**Yes, this is utter, utter crack. Ah, well.**

**Song: Shut Up, by Simple Plan.**

Sherlock had arrived at another crimescene, swanned about in his flappy coat, and irritated everybody, followed by his loyal dog, John Watson. Anderson seethed privately as he remembered past humiliations at Sherlock's hands. He was determined that today, he was going to do his job properly and he wasn't going to let the man treat him like dirt.

'Ah, Anderson. Wonderful. I wondered what the smell was,' Holmes began as he approached the body. Anderson gritted his teeth and continued to take photographs.

'Oh, honestly, Lestrade. Couldn't you do this one yourself?' Holmes began as he looked at the scene.

Anderson snapped. He'd had enough. 'There you go! You're always so right, it's all a big show, it's all about you.'

'Really, Anderson. I can't help being right.' The smug git was giving that patented smarter-than-thou smirk.

'You think you know what everyone needs, huh? You always take time to criticize me!' Out of a very busy schedule of lazing around being bored. The man should get a job, that'd use up his time a bit. 'It's like, everyday we make mistakes, we just can't get it right! And it's like I'm the one you love to hate! Well, not today.' There. He'd said it.

Holmes was looking as astonished as a man whose doormat has just stood up and complained about being trodden on. But he couldn't stop being snarky.

'Well, if you have objections you could always step up and start doing your job right.'

Anderson snapped, again. 'Shut up! Shut up! Shut _up_! I don't wanna hear it! Get out. Get out of here, get out of my way.' He pushed past the astonished detective to continue work on the corpse.

'Anderson,' Lestrade said warningly, and he was aware that he'd probably just thrown his job away, but he was fed up with Sherlock bloody Holmes and boy, did it feel good to yell at him for once.

'Step up,' Anderson continued, 'You'll never stop us, because nothing you say today- none of your little jabs- is going to bring me down.' He was really yelling and the rest of the police force was just politely pretending that they couldn't see anything.

'Right, well, I'll come back when your officer has finished having a nervous breakdown,' Sherlock said smoothly to Lestrade, who was looking more and more worried about being caught in a crossfire. Anderson gave a hysterical laugh.

'There you go! You never ask _why_! It's all a big lie, whatever you do! You think you're _special_, but I know- we know- we all know that you're not. You're always there to point out my mistakes, and shove them in my face- as I said, it's like I'm the one you love to hate. Well, not today.' Anderson stood up and faced the flummoxed detective. 'Nothing you can say today is going to bring us down to your level. Don't tell me who I should be; don't try to tell me what's right for me. Don't tell me what I should do. I don't want to waste my time- I'll watch you go away.'

The other officers had been watching, stunned. Seeing that he had stood up to Sherlock, and there was no retribution, Sally came and stood next to him. Sally was always the one next in line for Holmes' taunts; so she'd insulted him, she was wrong, but he hadn't been the model of politeness to begin with.

'Shut up, Holmes,' she joined in. 'We don't want to hear your snide remarks about our lives. Get out of our way or get out of our lives. Step up and act your age, because you can't stop us living. Nothing you say today is going to bring us down.'

Holmes was standing with his mouth open, staring at them. John, behind him, was trying not to laugh.

After a moment's silence, Sherlock inclined his head towards the two officers. Everybody held their breath.

'I applaud your imagination, if not the rather pointless application. I have never been insulted using the words of a pop song before.'

Everybody laughed, and even Sherlock cracked a smile. Nobody mentioned it again and the incident quickly became part of the Met Police's scuttlebutt and urban mythology. But from then on Sherlock Holmes was a fraction more polite to the police.

Everyone agreed this was only because a) he couldn't get ruder and b) John Watson had probably had a lot to do with it.

**What did I say? Crack to the core. Utter crack.**

**But it was very fun to write and I am so going to do more Sherlock songfics.**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: My first 221b. And it was one according to Word, although FF. Net has different ideas. Meh. This is sort-of what happened when me and some friends played board games XD**

It was Thursday. John Watson hated Thursdays. They weren't properly Fridays, but they were so late in the week that everything seemed just too boring to contemplate.

John Watson hated this Thursday more than any other. Why?

They had just finished a case. And that meant that they didn't have another one yet. And so Sherlock was torn between boasting about solving that case, and whinging about having another one.

It was like caring for a toddler.

So John had suggested Scrabble. Sherlock agreed suspiciously quickly- he'd fully expected a fight- and swung down off the back of the sofa where he'd been playing the violin upside down. (John hadn't thought it was possible. Sherlock had managed it.)

John realized why Sherlock liked scrabble sometime after 'tyrotoxine' but before 'discombobulated' landed on a triple word score. He was _sure_ Sherlock must be cheating.

He gave up on scrabble.

He tried to play cheat instead.

Sherlock read all his tells like an open book, complained he was telegraphing his movements, and won within two minutes.

He tried a general knowledge quiz.

Sherlock aced every question. In despair, John scrabbled through the cards, looking for some on space. They'd all gone. Sherlock is looking bored and innocent, a combination he's had practice at pulling off.

Then the dreaded three words.

'John. I'm bored.'


End file.
